He has his little song
Being nice, being nice, spend my whole life being nice
it’s his affirmation
his wrestle with McEnroe-Rue Morgue-Leviathan
He senses a form of life who feel no pain
they’re at his door
his talk is air
his text is squiggles.
Somewhere else, miles away,
a sparrow hawk flies close
The pattern of winged air
on his face
transcribed.